


A Night At Swerve's Bar

by ultharkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate suggests trying something new, but it's far more than he expected.</p><p>Contains sticky, interface toys, valve play, public. Written for Lyresnake, who requested 'Anything Cyclonus/Tailgate (yes I'm predictable X3) and sticky?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night At Swerve's Bar

It was a special time in Swerve's Bar. A giddy, slightly dizzy time. The kind of time that rolled around after each major disaster and near-death experience when everyone was so grateful to be alive that they drank as though tomorrow was free from responsibilities and hangovers were a myth. Tailgate sat in his corner booth and sucked fumes from the very air. He had a drink, but he sipped it slowly, savouring the taste through the curly straw Chromedome had given him, making it last. 

He didn't want to get drunk. Drunk only led to silliness, bragging, making himself the centre of attention. He couldn't afford to be the centre of attention, not with his valve cover barely closed and a string of vibrating rubber beads filling him out.

He sighed, leaning back against the shiny padded seat-back. The beads shifted, rolling over his anterior sensors, and he grasped for his drink to have something else to focus on. Cyclonus offered him a lazy smile, influenced perhaps by the rather larger set that Tailgate had gently pushed into him, one by one, before they'd left their hab-suite. 

"Comfortable?" Cyclonus asked, and Tailgate nodded frantically. 

"Yes, yes I'm fine, perfectly fine!" He sipped his drink, pressing his thighs together, and tried to forget that this has been his idea. 

Cyclonus drew him close, an arm around his shoulders, clawed fingers wrapping around the tyre at his shoulder. "We can stop any time you like," he said quietly. 

Tailgate swallowed, clenching around the beads. "No nonononono I'm good," he said. "Better than good. Unf!" He covered his open oral intake with his hand, and squeaked, "Next time I suggest something like this make me try it out at home first!"

"Intense?" Cyclonus rumbled, flaring his energy field and treating Tailgate to an intoxicating taste of his arousal. 

"You... could say that," Tailgate replied. He arched, kicking his legs under the table, trying to pretend he was just stretching. He yawned for added believability, the fresh in-vent slamming him with a fug of high grade. Over by the bar another cheer went up, followed by a round of raucous laughter. Rodimus' hand raised above the throng, giving a rather sticky thumbs up. Each time Whirl moved to refill his glass Tailgate got a glance of Rodimus lying on the bar while a small group of increasingly uncoordinated crew mates tried to imbibe shots of syrupy multi-coloured energon balanced precariously on his armour without the use of their hands. Each successful drink raised a cheer from the crowd, each failure led to Rodimus getting a little bit filthier. 

Tailgate wondered if they were going to lick him clean after. Maybe Ultra Magnus would carry him away, or Drift and Ratchet when the crew had drunk themselves into a sleepy haze and Swerve finally kicked everyone out. 

"Maybe I could sit on your lap," Tailgate said quietly. "You could get me off. Everyone's watching Rodimus."

Cyclonus glanced down. "Running hot, are we?" he asked with a smirk. 

"How are you _not!_ " Tailgate threw his head back, and froze when Whirl turned briefly to look at him. 

Cyclonus didn't answer, but his free hand slipped under the table and between Tailgate's legs. Tailgate parted his thighs, and drew back his cover. The air was cool on his moistened sensors, but Cyclonus' fingers were hot. And smooth, and skilled and insisted, and Tailgate hunched over the table, gripping his glass in both hands and clamped down on his vocal processors as Cyclonus caressed him to the brink. Then he was overloading, unable to suppress a groan or to hide the bright flare of his visor. 

He came down with Cyclonus' claw tips inside him, gently nudging the beads around. 

"Better?" Cyclonus asked, and drained his drink. 

Tailgate let his head flop to the table, waiting for his gyros to stabilise and his spark to stop thrumming. 

"Yeah," he managed after a while. "Yeah, yes. OK." He sat up. "We need to leave, right now."

They were barely inside their hab-suite before Tailgate was on his back, tugging the beads from his valve one by one. He kept himself spread, inviting, beckoning Cyclonus with a slick shiny hand. 

Cyclonus lifted him, and the warmth of his energy field was a full body embrace. He sat on his recharge slab, and Tailgate straddled him, expertly triggering the release on his cord cover and swinging his hips to drag the mouth of his valve over Cyclonus' full length. 

"Careful," Cyclonus warned, but Tailgate was fed up with waiting. And besides he was so wet, so ready, still warm from his overload in the bar, still trembling a little from the beads. He sank down onto the cord, rocking his hips to drag the flanges where he needed them most. His visor dimmed, his hands clutching at Cyclonus' shoulders. 

"So good," he sighed, and Cyclonus lay back and let him have his way.


End file.
